THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS 

ON 

"MOODY  MOMENTS" 


The  author  is  blind,  and  this  fact  lends  something  more 
than  pathetic  interest  to  his  verse,  for  it  furnishes  the  motif 
of  many  of  his  lines,  and,  without  affectation,  enables  the 
reader  to  enter  somewhat  into  the  experience  of  one  thus 
isolated  as,  for  example,  in  the  moving  sonnet,  "Bewitching 
Sleep,"  and  in  the  verses,  "Cherubs,  I  Follow  Slowly." — The 
Atlantic  Monthly. 

Mr.  Doyle  has  a  pleasing  way  of  expressing  himself  in 
verse.  His  songs  are  simple,  tender,  and  from  within,  for  the 
most  part.  Here  and  there,  however,  a  note  of  fire  is  struck, 
and  the  thrill  of  genuine  inspiration  gives  momentary  eleva 
tion  to  the  effect  of  his  song. 

Taking  his  misfortune  into  consideration,  the  conclusion  is 
forced  at  once  that  here  is  a  talent  of  high  order  working  its 
way  through  the  dark,  and  "remembering  the  light." — New 
York  Independent. 

Is  not  this  man  a  poet? — it  would  be  hard  to  deny  him  the 
name.  The  lines  here  and  there  we  have  italicized  are  in  a 
high  degree  poetical,  and  the  sonnets  we  have  quoted  show  a 
rare  appreciation  of  the  value  and  use  of  that  form  of  verse. 
— The  Springfield  Republican. 

Mr.  Doyle  is  to  be  cordially  congratulated  upon  the  extra 
ordinary  vividness  of  his  mental  vision — without  which  the 
best  of  eyes,  aided  by  a  microscope  for  the  infusoria  and  a 
telescope  for  the  planets,  remain  only  unimaginative  re 
porters.  Among  the  best  poems  are  the  imaginative  and 
powerful  "Fire  Bird,"  and  the  grave  and  noble  sonnet 
beginning : 

"Gray,  venerable  shepherds,  who  have  lost 
Vast  numbers  of  their  flock  along  the  vale." 

Such  work  as  this  shows  the  author  to  be  not  incapable  of 
sustained  verse;  his  talent  is  genuine,  nourished  by  his  brave 
interest  in  the  world  of  humanity,  from  which  no  loss  of  a 
sense  can  shut  out  a  healthful  spirit. — Boston  Literary  World. 


The 
Haunted  Temple 

and  Other  Poems 


Edward  Doyle 


Author  of  "  Moody  Moments  " 


ttbc  Unicfccrbocbcr  press 
•Hew  itforb 


COPYRIGHT,  1905 

BY 
EDWARD  DOYLE 


Contents 

PAGE 

DEDICATION i 

THE  HAUNTED  TEMPLE 5 

DEMOCRACY         .......     27 

THE  SEARCHING  SWALLOW  .        .         .  '      .     30 

FROM  THE  FEAST  I  RISE  TRUSTFUL     .         .         .32 
OFT,  MY  BABE!  I  FANCY  So        .         .         .         .38 

THE  STAR  OF  THE  TWILIGHT        .         .         .         .39 

FAITH          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .44 

THEY  WERE  HUMAN  FEATURES  .  -45 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOUL       .         .         .         .         .47 

LIBERTY  BELL 48 

HARLEM 50 

THE  FATHER  OF  OUR  NAVAL  GLORY  .  .  .52 
MEMORIAL  TREES  ON  WASHINGTON  HEIGHTS  .  56 
THE  EAST  RIVER  PRISON  HULKS  .  .  58 

GRANT         ........     60 

SONNETS 

BY  THE  DOOR      .......     65 

BEATRICE    ........     66 

'T  Is  Now  THREE  DECADES          .         .         .         .67 

To  A  CHILD  READING 68 

A  HUNDRED  GATES  OF  BRASS      .         .         .         -69 


CO 


PAGE 

WALL  STREET 7° 

BEYOND 71 

GRACE         .         . 72 

THE  SPIRIT'S  CHANT 73 

WHEN  LOVE  IT  WAS 74 

Yet  EVER  RISING  SLOWLY 75 

THE  IDEAL 76 

To  A  CHILD  IN  HEAVEN 77 

To  MY  SISTER •  7$ 

IF ...  79 

Is  LIFE  ALL  DOWNWARD  ROOT  ?          ...  80 

MENTAL  ORBITS .  81 

A  SUNSET  SCENE 82 

THE  PALISADES 83 

DAME  MURRAY  OF  BLOOMINGDALE       .         .         .84 

ERIN 85 

THE  JEWS  IN  RUSSIA 86 

THE  ARCH  OF  LIGHT 87 

BEAUTY 88 

THE  DISCOVERY 89 

THE  SUN'S  WAY  .         .         .         .  -9° 

SOUL .         .  91 

CHIME,  DARK  BELL! 92 


ZTo  ms  Wife 


How  awful  is  the  ceaseless  roar 
Of  hopes  a-breaking  on  the  shore! 

The  breakers  flood  mine  isle. 
Still,  as  my  spirit  has  not  flown, 
No  empty  shell  am  I  to  moan; 

I  face  the  storm  and  smile. 

The  promontory  furthest  out, 

I  climb,  and  thence,  at  midnight,  shout 

To  Dawn  that  all  is  well  ; 
For,  howso  bleak  the  region  where 
The  soul  is  sent,  —  oh!  how  prove  there 

Not  a  true  sentinel? 

While  watching  there  I  see  a  form 
Walk  on  the  billows  through  the  storm 

And  scale  my  rocky  height. 
'T  is  Beauty's  confidant  and  page, 
Remembrance,  who,  at  the  ocean's  rage, 

Can  only  laugh  outright. 


What  is  Remembrance?     Oft,  I  ween, 
'T  is  Beauty — mother  more  than  queen- 

Who,  masked,  absents  her  throne, 
Snatching  her  crown -gems,  jewels  rare, 
To  give  them  to  her  banished  heir, 

Whom  she  cannot  disown. 

These  jewels  fondly  I  entwine 

To  deck,  dear  Wife,  that  love  of  thine 

That  swam  the  stormy  strait, 
And  that,  despite  the  ceaseless  roar 
Of  hopes  a -breaking  on  the  shore, 

Smiles  at  my  side,  elate. 


Ibaunteb  {Temple 


ttbe  Ibauntefc  temple 


The  day  was  dark  with  clouds  and  drizzling 

rain, 

When,  through  the  town,  I  took  my  Sab 
bath  stroll. 
The  church  bell  sounded  weirdly  clear.  Again, 

And  yet  again,  I  harkened,  till  my  soul, 
Awaking  from  its  heavy  slumber  spell, 

Stood,  glaring,  like  a  frozen  waterfall ; 
For  louder  and  deeper  than  the  steeple  bell, 

Than  organ,  choir,  and  anthem,  sung  by  all, 
Was  human  anguish,   thundering  to   God's 

Throne 
For  justice,  from  the  Temple's  every  stone. 

ii 

I  gazed  about  bewildered,  for   I  knew 

No  landmark;    even  the  Hudson  was  ef 
faced. 


The  Temple,  pointing  to  the  High  and  True, 
Stood  on  an  arch  above  a  marshy  waste. 

The  grand  surroundings  held  my  gaze  awhile. 
A  hundred  fountains,  flashing  yellow  light 

On  mansions,  greenly  groved  for  many  a  mile, 
Circled  on  terraces,  the  sacred  height. 

The  Temple  greatened,  and,  as  it  enlarged, 

More  dreadful  was  the  thunder  it  discharged. 


in 


I  shook  and  had  no  thought  but  how  to  flee 

The  place  of  horror.     Suddenly,  a  hand, 
Laid  gently  on  my  forehead,  strengthened  me 
To  hear  the  low,  sweet  Voice,  that  bade  me 

stand, 
Saying:    "Behold  the  Truth!    make  thou  it 

plain. 

Speak,  that  the  blood  of  brother  be  atoned. 

Tell  those  there,  that  they  are  the  kin  of  Cain. 

Speak  boldly,  though  with  scorn  thou  then 

be  stoned." 
"What  voice  have  I?"  I  gasped.     "Thy  hate 

of  wrong 

Is  voice,"  it  answered;    "Truth  will  make  it 
strong." 

6 


IV 


I  gazed  up  at  the  Fane.     All  arts  combined 

To  make  it  a  grand  Temple,  saving  solely 
The  art  of  living  nobly  for  one's  kind, 

Which,  drawing  Grace,  alone  could  make  it 

holy. 
Upon  memorial  window  panes  were  shown 

Fata  Morganas,  marvellous  to  see. 
The  organ  was  of  so  profound  a  tone, 

It  ran  aground  along  Eternity, 
Thrilling  one,  as  the  grating  of  the  Ark 
On  Ararat,  thrilled  Noah,  when  all  was  dark. 


The  spire  was  not  the  angel-luminous  stair, 
Dreamed  by  the  prophet,  but  the  lifeless 

dross 

Of  heart  and  spirit,  moulded  high  in  air. 
Nor  did  the  Temple's  frame  with  dome  and 

cross 
Grow  faster  than  my  vision ;  for  I  saw 

The  architect  and  masons,  each  with  eyes 
Turned  inward,  at  their  work,  and  that  the 
law 


Whereby  they  raise  their  temple  to  the 

skies 

Was,  in  its  course,  antipodal, — not  one 
With  that  of  the  ascending  stars  and  sun. 

VI 

Tho'  brief  my  glance,  I  saw,  too,  that  each 

stone 
Was  hollow,  and  as  black  as  soot.     Yet, 

soon, 

The  temple  sparkled,  as  tho'  diamond-grown 
With  rays  in  torrents  from  a  sun  at  noon. 
This  sun  was  soulless  opulence,  whose  blaze 
Seemed  blessings  straight  from  God;    yet, 

to  my  ken, 
This  noon-sun  that  had  drawn  up  for  its  rays 

The  vital  sparks  of  half  my  fellow-men, 
Shone  ghastly  on  the  fane,  the  spectral  dead 
Moting  most  densely  every  beam  it  shed. 

VII 

"How  could  the  Lord  let  such  a  Temple 

stand?" 

I    murmured    low,    mistrusting   my    clear 
sight. 

8 


My  head  grew  giddy,  and  my  wandering  hand 
Groped  for  support.     I  should  have  swooned 

outright, 

But  for  rare  fragrance,  blown  from  vines  with 
out, 
That  whitely  clomb  the  Temple  porch  and 

wall. 
"Those   roses,"   sighed  the   Mentor,   stilling 

doubt, 
"Are  child-souls,  but  for  which  the  fane 

would  fall ; 

'T  is  held  up  by  their  tendrils  clinging  fast 
To  porch  and  wall,  when  blows  the  judgment 
blast." 

VIII 

Then  Conscience,  out-cast  crone,  who  seemed 

to  twist 

Her  hands  off,  passed  by  me,  with  step  cat- 
soft, 

And,  opening  the  Temple  portal,  hissed: 
"These  hands  have  pointed  out  the  drear 

aloft 

Between  ye  and  your  God ;  how  no  oasis 
Relieves   yon   desert   sands   that   upward 
burn! 

9 


With  eyes  cast  down,  and  set,  averted  faces, 

Ye  harkened ;  but,  ye  fools !  ye  did  not  learn 
The  import  of  my  message ;  for  ye  built 
Your  Fane  to  God  on  ground  not  cleared  of 
guilt." 

IX 

I  trembled,  and  devoutly  breathed  a  prayer, 
Which  always  drives  the  Evil  One  away; 
My  Mentor  fled  not,  but  smoothed  down  my 

hair. 

I  had  no  fear  for  what  the  world  might  say, 

But  dread  of  uttering  falsehood  troubled  me; 

That  was  abhorrent,  as  though  I  should 

change 

My  human  form  to  reptile,  consciously, 
And,  fanged  with  poison,  through  the  world 

should  range 

In  ambush  to  way -lay  the  witless  wight. 
Ah!    saw   I   truly?     "God,"    I   cried,    "Thy 
light!" 

x 

While  I  stood  hesitant,  a  vivid  flare 

Enveloped  me.     As  soon  as  I  could  train 

My  sight  to  grasp  an  object  in  the  glare, 
I  saw  blue  vapor  where  had  been  the  Fane, 

IO 


And,  far  below,  a  cavern,  all  a-swarm 

With  writhing  things.     A  zigzag  stairway, 

rent 

By  lightning  for  the  darkness  of  the  storm 
And  every  foulness  that,  then,  found  no 

vent, 

Led  to  the  pit.     A  look  down  made  me  reel. 
"Descend,"  the  voice  said;  "  one  to  see  must 
feel." 


XI 


Faint  grew  my  heart ;  my  brow  began  to  burn ; 
I  caught  some  object  with  my  drowning 

clutch, 
Hearing :   ' '  Man  is  an  infant ;  he  can  learn 

But  by  experience — the  sense  of  touch. 
It  is  by  sharing  anguish,  men  grow  brothers ; 
One  mother's  features,  then,  they  see  and 

know. 

If  thou  descend  not  where  the  cavern  smothers 
Thy  kindred,  how  conduct  those  down  to 

woe, 

Who,  truly  seeing  wrong,  would  strike  it  dead? 
'  They  know  not  what  they  do ! '  must  still  be 
said." 

IX 


XII 


Down  was  I  lowered  from  daylight.     Oh,  how 

bright 
The   clouds   appeared   then,    to   my   eyes 

astrain! 
Oh,  for  a  bud  for  my  Spring-hungry  sight! 

No  echo  there  relinked  Joy's  broken  chain. 
Down,  down  I  sank.     Oh,  for  a  gulp  of  air, 
Cupped  by  the  Evening's  hands  from  out 

the  sea! 
Down,  down,  still  down! — Can  this  be  death? 

How  bear 

This  dissolution,  and  still  conscious  be? 
I   felt;    the  voice  replied:    "Descend  thou 

where 

The   coal  takes   blackness   from  the   Soul's 
despair." 


XIII 


What  strata!     Nor  therein,  as  I  surmised, 
Was  it  an  ancient  forest  that  was  traced ; 

It  was  the  modern  town — the  grove  capsized 
From  sunshine,  bloom,  bird-song,  and  fruit 
to  taste. 

12 


It  was  the  home  with  all  its  happy  hours, 
The  child  as  gay  as  the  moth  she  could  not 

catch, 

The  youth  with  eyes  upon  Ambition's  towers, 
The  housewife's  smile,  who  e'er  might  lift 

the  latch, 

And  every  face,  the  bloom  of  coast  or  mead — 
That  had  been  petrified  by  soulless  Greed. 


XIV 


Nay,  it  was  Man,  with  all  the  links  undone, 
That  bound  him  to  fair  Nature.     These  are 

laws, 

Like  those  that  bind  the  planets  to  the  sun; 
If   broken,   chaos    balks    the    great    First 

Cause. 
Here,  shattered  was  Man's  sacred  chain — the 

sight, 
The  hearing,  smell,  the  taste,  the  touch,  the 

heart, 
The  mind,  and  soul  from  what  gave  them 

delight. 

No  longer,  of  Creation,  formed  he  part, 
Developing,  subliming.     Ruined  Man 
Here  told  in  rock,  of  God's  frustrated  plan. 

13 


XV 


Broader  and  deeper  grew  the  cavern  dim. 
It  was  all  toil,   I  saw,  where  Man  must 

give 

Heart,  soul,  and  every  gift,  ennobling  him, 
To  the  Few,  more  mighty,  for  the  right  to 

live ; 
Nay,  must  surrender,  not  alone  himself, 

But  darling  child,  who  shyly  hides  his  face 
Behind  his  open  fingers, — ostrich  elf! — 
Or  who,  with  twig  for  sword,  struts  with 

grimace, 

And,  dimly  conscious  that  he  leads  a  host, — 
Which  he  doth  truly, — boldly  makes  his  boast. 


XVI 


Yea,  truly,  't  is  a  host — his  ragged  heirs — 
The  Race, — he  leads,  when,  setting  out  to 

kill 
The    giant,    he    lifts    high    his    sword,    and 

dares 

The  monster  to  appear  upon  the  hill. 
God!     It  is  sad  beyond  all  utterance 

That,  when  the  mighty  giant  does  appear, 
14 


No  phalanx  moves  to  check  his  bold  advance. 
Leader  and  host — where  are  they  ?     Peated 

here, 
Or  turned   to   coal.     All   round,  the   strata 

showed 
Such  armies,  strewn  on  every  upward  road. 

XVII 

On  them,  and  all,  there  blew  a  gust  of  rain. 
A  green-eyed,  bat -like  monster,  flapping, 

brushed 
By  me  and  shrieked:   "Give  coal  a  rich,  red 

stain ; 
It    matters    not    how    many    hearts    are 

crushed." 
Then,  torrents  fell.     Ah!  whence  that  awful 

flood? 
Inquired  my  heart.      "It  is  the  children, 

wives, 
Mothers,  and    sisters,   drained    of    all    their 

blood — 
Emptied  of  joy  and  hope  throughout  their 

lives," 
Replied    my    Mentor.     How    I    shook    with 

dread, 
Hearing  dire  want,  the  Crusher,  overhead! 

15 


XVIII 

"On!"  urged  the  Voice.     With  pity  for  my 

kind 
For  forehead  lamp,  I  crept  on  hands  and 

knees 

Through  narrow  apertures,  with  many  a  wind, 
To  where  I  heard  men  moan.      By   slow 

degrees, 

And  painful,  one  I  reached.     I  gently  raised 
His  form  of  childlike  weight  from  off  the 

floor; 
His  heart  beat,  but  his  eyes,  half  shut,  were 

glazed. 

Vainly  I  chafed  his  hands.     Oh!  how  re 
store 

A  being  back  to  hope,  where  air  was  soot? 
Lifted  to  walk,  he  fell  back,  dead  of  foot. 


XIX 


Creeping  through  moaning  souls,  back  oft  I 
shrank 

From  a  deep  precipice,  between  steep  walls 
That  o'er  me  shot,  as  high  as  those  that  bank 

The  Colorado's  centipede  of  falls. 

16 


On  leaning  o'er  the  brink,  how  saw  I  plain 
The  primal  crust  that,  from  earth's  Central 
Fire, 

Held  up  the  caverns,  mansions,  and  the  Fane. 
"What  is  that  crust?"  I  queried.     My  de 
sire 

Was  answered  quickly:     "T  is  the  millions 
who, 

Born    with    God-power,    are    to    themselves 
untrue." 

xx 

Rising,  I  caused  a  splash.    God!  how  I  chilled! 
The  sound  sprang   up  at   me,  a  spectral 

hound 
On  hunt  of  him  by  whom  the  blood  was 

spilled ; 
Then,  what  a  pack  of  echoes  bayed  all 

round ! 
Seized  by  a  new,  strange  feeling  that  could  find 

Relief  but  in  wild  laughter,  thrice  aloud, 
Laughed  I  in  that  dark  place.     God!  was  my 

mind 

Collapsing?     In  an  instant  I  was  cowed 
By  a  great  echo  mob,  who,  as  they  passed 
My  laugh  along,  flung  up  their  arms,  aghast. 

2 

17 


XXI 

No  forward  step,  nor  back,  did  I  dare  take. 

Assimilating,  then,  my  Mentor's  arm, 
Round   me    swung    Haughtiness,    a    mighty 

snake, 

Bearing  me  upward.     Frantic  with  alarm, 
My  Mentor  followed  fast;  but,  as  I  rose, 
His  voice  grew  faint  and  fainter  to  mine 

ear. 
Up,  up  I  shot.     Ere  long,  my  feelings  froze ; 

For,  as  I  vaulted  from  the  cavern  drear, 
The  winged  snake's  cold  blood  of  proud  dis 
dain 

Of  man  and  earth,  coursed  also  through  my 
vein. 

XXII 

This  flying  serpent  hissed  the  question : ' '  What 

Cares  the  Almighty  for  the  mustard  seed, 
Called  beauteous  earth?     Space,  heightening, 

sees  it  not. 

Its  nothingness  can  Reason,  running,  read." 
I  was  crushed  breathless.     One  with  mighty 

hands 

Parted  the  glaring  serpent  soon  from  me, 
is 


And  said,  descending:    "That  least  seed  ex 
pands 

The  greatest  of  the  herbs — nay,  grows  a 
tree, 

Among  whose  boughs  shall  come  and  lodge  the 
birds." 

I  saw  new  meaning  in  the  Saviour's  words. 

XXIII 

Strengthened,    I   looked   about.     Above   me 

flew 
Grim,  bat -like  Greed, — half  demon  and  half 

brute. 

It  was  the  monster  that  the  mighty  Few 
Had  made  with  their  own  hands,  to  sub 
stitute 

A  loving  God ; — a  creature  hugely  made 
In  their  own  likeness;    one  to  whom  they 

gave 
Their   every  breath,   and   whom   they   then 

obeyed, 

Though  life  with  him  was  impulse  to  de 
prave 

All  human  nature,  and  to  uncreate 
The  world,  that  he  might  flourish  ghastly- 
great. 

19 


XXIV 

I  swooned  headlong.     The  voice  said:  "Why 

lie  prone?" 

I  labored  to  my  feet,  but  fell  aback, 
For  down  the  roof  crashed,  as  tho'  tempest- 
thrown. 
Up,   thro'   the   rift   and  Temple,   hanging 

black, 
Then  blood  arose  like  flame  throughout  the 

mine. 

On  high  it  formed  a  cross.     Still  did  it  rise, 
Revealing  shadowy,  a  Form  Divine 

With    arms    extended.     Lurid    grew    the 

skies ; 

While,  from  its  grave,  burst  Echo  moaningly: 
"What  ye  do  to  the  least,  ye  do  to  Me." 


XXV 

How  credit  what  I  saw?     Still,  if  the  eye 
Shines  starry,  like  the  sunken  well,  be  sure, 

The  stars  grow  not  like  lilies,  but  on  high 
Blaze  glorious  and  pierce  the  space  obscure. 

Oh,  Inner  Light  that  cannot  pass  away! 
Let  suns  collide  and  in  one  blaze  consume, 

20 


The  Word  enlightening  the  Soul  shall  stay. 
It  was  its  beam,  whereby,  through  mist, 

through  gloom, 
Through  rock,  through  earthcrust,  and  through 

clouds  on  high, 
I  saw  the  Truth,  to  which  I  testify. 


XXVI 

Yea,  did  that  crimson  current,  cruciform, 

Ascend,  ascend,  till  all  that  could  be  seen 
Was  the  pierced  Heart  upon  it,  beating  warm 

For  every  suffering  soul,  however  mean. 
In  its  ascent,  the  current  parted  wide 

From  sparkling  founts,  that,  yellowing  in 

hue, 
Arose  like  solar  geysers.     As  I  eyed 

The  glamour  on  the  mansions  of  the  Few 
About  the  Temple,  how  my  veins  ran  cold; 
For  it  was  human  blood,  turned  into  gold! 


XXVII 

Upon  the  scene  a  sudden  darkness  fell — 
Or,  was  it  anguish  that  destroyed  my  sight? 

21 


A  wind-rush  stunned  mine  ears;  nor  could  I 
tell 

The  sea -like  whirr  was  countless  years  in 

flight, 
Until  the  Temple  loomed  forth,  inly  dark. 

It  was  a  ruin ;  many  a  porch  and  wall 
Had  fallen.     It  was  like  the  inky  arc 

O'er  boreal  seas,  or  cloud  about  to  fall 
With  devastation  on  the  breathless  vale. 
Still,  when  I  looked  again,  it  glowed,  tho'  pale. 


XXVIII 

How  strange  that  glow!     A  phosphorescent 

moss 
Had  overgrown  the  fane.     Tho'  cold  the 

beam 

That  lighted  up  the  porches,  dome  and  cross, 
Still  I  admired.     I  marvelled  at  no  stream 
Of  people  toward  the  portals,  as  became 
So  great  a  Temple.     "People?"  said  the 

Voice 

In  mild  rebuke ;  ' '  There  are  no  people !  Blame 
The  Few,  who,  killing  men  of  hopes  and 

joys, 

22 


Have  sunk  their  towns  in  Arizonian  sand. 
The  White  race,  too,  has  vanished  from  the 
Land." 

XXIX 

I  stood  all  tremulous.     With  eyes  aglare 
Paced  Conscience  there,  more  piteous  than 

before. 
Gowned  in  her  long,  grave-grown,  dishevelled 

hair, 
This   outcast   from    the    Temple    trudged 

footsore. 
Into  a  grave  that  opened  in  her  shade, 

She  flung  herself.     There  shrank  she,  knees 

to  chin, 
And,   rocking   to   and   fro,   weird  moanings 

made. 
How  sleep  with  lidless  eyes,  and  'mid  such 

din? 
Up  leaped  she  soon,  and,  rushing  toward  the 

Fane, 
Sought  shelter ;  but  she  was  thrust  out  again. 

XXX 

Such  ecstacy  of  anguish  seized  the  crone, 
That  she  grew  levitant.     Aloft  she  rose, 
23 


Tearing  with  both  her  hands,  her  hair,  grave- 
grown. 
Her  hands  grew  wings  in  working  thus  her 

throes. 

The  Temple  circled  she  seven  times,  as  though 

It  were  a  viewless  mountain  path  she  clomb ; 

Then,   like  the  little    cloud   that    travellers 

know 
And  burrow  from,  she  loomed  above  the 

dome, 

Where  she  enlarged  to  sweep,  as  I  discerned, 
The  sand  oasisless,  that  upward  burned. 


XXXI 

Oh !  never  was  such  sound  as  that  which  broke 

Above  the  desert.     Looking  up,  I  saw 
The  Crimson  Cross,  and  heard  the  Heart  in 
voke 

The  Fatherhood  for  judgment  by  His  law. 
Such  was  the  sound,  it  shivered  into  dust 

The  starry  firmament;  whereat  the  dark 
Was  shaken  by  these  words:    "Lord!    Thou 

art  just; 

No  heart -beat  is  so  faint,  but  Thou  dost 
hark; 

24 


Yet    long    aloud,    my    blood    has    cried    to 

Thee     .     .     . 
My   God!     My   God!     Hast   Thou   forsaken 

me?     .     .     . 

XXXII 

4 'The  silence  of  Thy  Heavens  is  not,  indeed, 

That  Justice  drifts  across  celestial  space, 
A  soulless  carcass,  with  no  ear  to  heed, 

And  glaring  sightless  at  the  human  race ! 
For  justice  lives,  and  reaches  to  the  mote, 

No  less  than  mass,  sustaining  one  and  all 
To  do  Thy  purpose.     Lucifer  may  gloat 

Defiance,  while  on  earth  he  stays  his  Fall, 
And  breaks  Thy  good  to  fragments  sharp  of 

ill; 

But  he  shall  sink,  confounded;  't  is  Thy  will. 

XXXIII 

"Thou  knowest,   Lord,  how  for  all  souls  I 

thirst. 

The  chalice  I  would  pass,  were  it  Thy  will, 
Is  the  word  to  any  soul :  '  Depart,  accursed ! ' 
Send  unto  them  Thy  Spirit,  who  work  ill. 
25 


How  long,   how  long,   O   Father! — oh,   how 

long, 

This  crucifixion  by  mine  own — by  each, 
Who,    knowing    me,    yet    doth    his    brother 

wrong!" 

Then,  in  his  own  God-tongue,  did  he  be 
seech. 

It  was  His  echo  that  my  soul  heard  groan 
For  justice  from  the  Temple's  every  stone. 


Democracy 

(Lines  suggested  by  the  Grant  Monument  at  Riverside  Park,  New  York  City.) 

Though  with  each  step  he  split  the  verdant 

earth 

To  its  red  centre,  starting  bursts  of  flame 
That,  wind-blown,  made  an  ashen  wilderness 
Of  forest,  field  and  town,  Democracy 
Moved  forward,  smiling ;  for  he  warmly  felt 
About  his  brow,  the  halo  of  God's  love, 
And,  by  its  light,  saw  triumph  through  the  dark. 
Could  he,  the  long-expected,  long-desired, 
Be  now  engulfed?     What!  he  to  disappear 
Forever,  as  an  island  in  mid-sea, 
Agleam  with  cascades  and  with  fruitful  groves, 
Except  where,  from  the  sky,  the  mountain 

swoops, 

As  with  the  rage  of  hunger,  and  darts  steep 
Upon  the  grazing,  unsuspecting  wave, — 
Sinks  with  its  peak,  its  cascades  and  its  groves, 
The  laden  ships  at  anchor  in  its  bay, 

27 


And  with  the  last  hope  of  the  watching  crew, 
Adrift  with  famine,  who  begin  anew 
To  cast  the  dice  for  one  another's  blood; 
And  leaves  no  trace,  except  the  flocks  of  birds 
That  rise  in  columns,  like  volcanic  smoke, 
And  scatter  for  the  land  that  none  can  reach  ? 
Was  thus  to  perish  bold  Democracy, 
The  giant  who  had  dashed  a  kingdom  down 
For  meddling  with  his  soul;   then,  clutching 

fast 

The  glaring,  wild  Atlantic  'mid  her  whelps, 
Freed  not  her  fury  from  his  grasp,  until 
He  reached  the  region  wnere  he  walked  with 

God, 

Unhampered  by  the  whim  or  craft  of  Kings? 
Democracy,  that  shook  the  sleeping  wilds 
And  woke  them  into  cities  with  his  will ; 
Then,  seized  invading  despotdom  and  hurled 
Its  bleeding  carcass,  like  a  thunder-bolt, 
Back  to  the  old  world  thro'  the  clouds  of  war, 
Declaring    with    a    voice    that    shook    from 

Heaven, 

All  the  ill  stars  foredooming  men  at  birth: 
"In  this  New  World  shall  thrive  no  Old  World 

wrong!" 
Democracy,  to  perish  in  the  act 


Of  towering  on  a  mound  of  myriad  men 
Into  the  sky,  and  flinging  from  our  shore, 
With  his  fierce,  lifted  hands,  and  all  his  might, 
The  storm-mouthed  monster  of  the  Despot's 

get, 

That  from  its  lairs,  the  caverns  in  the  South, 
Roamed  rashly  toward  our  mountains  and 

broad  plains, 

To  crush  beneath  its  soul-destroying  wrath, 
Our  brethren,  dark  of  face,  in  multitudes 
Beyond  all  reckoning,  except  of  justice 
That  counts  the  unshed  tear,  and  asks  of  Cain : 
"Where  is  thy  brother?"  though  the  skulking 

soul 

Be  but  the  murmur  in  the  smallest  shell, 
Imbedded  in  the  marl  beneath  the  deep? 
"No,"  spake  forth  God.  Transfigured  and 

refreshed 

By  that  almighty  voice,  Democracy, 
Haloed  of  brow,  drew  back  his  giant  arms 
Above  him,  like  a  bow,  and,  with  a  spring, 
Hurled  forth  the  monster,  raising  soon,  a  jet 
From  the  abysmal  billows  into  Heaven 
In  such  a  volume,  it  will  never  cease 
To  fall  in  sunny  showers  upon  our  land, 
And  form  a  rainbow  all  around  the  globe. 

29 


Searcbing  Swallow 


Over  meadow,  hill  and  hollow, 
Long  of  sweep,  or  eddying, 

Scuds  the  twittering,  purple  swallow, 
Feathered,  restless  Soul  of  Spring. 

Low  he  skims.     If  oft  he  dips, 
'T  is  to  rise  a-gleam  with  dew 

From  his  crest  to  pinion  tips, 
As  his  soul  were  shining  through. 

Rest  he  never  takes  ;  but  flies 

On  his  search  from  dawn  to  night. 

Storms  that  drag  down  scarlet  skies, 
See  ahead  his  twinkling  flight. 

Wherefore  scuds  the  purple  swallow, 
Long  of  sweep,  or  eddying, 

Over  meadow,  hill  and  hollow? 
Why  not  perch  and  fold  his  wing? 
30 


Finds  he  not  on  all  the  earth, 

Fare  to  satisfy  his  heart? 
Has  he  cravings,  too,  from  birth, 

For  what  earth  cannot  impart? 

Seeks  he  for  the  seed  his  race 
Fed  on,  ere  the  angel  flew 

Over  Eden,  stern  of  face, 
And  from  heaven  the  comet  drew? 


from  tfoe  ffeast  11  "Rise  trustful 


On  the  wreck  of  his  hope — its  last  remnant — 

last  rafter — 
Man   whirled   in    a   vortex,    with   planets 

charred  black. 
One  dense  darkness  was  both  the  Before  and 

the  After. 
Had  Creation  been  merely  a  hurricane's 

track, 
And  the  sun  in  the  welkin,  the  Soul  in  the 

world, 
Been  but  deserts  caught  up,  that  took  fire  as 

they  swirled? 

ii 

All  the  human  had  shrunken  to  one,  and 

that  I! 

Though  a  leaf  had  the  strength  of  its  oak, 
what  avail 

32 


In  a  whirl  that  was  drawing  the  orbs  from  on 

high! 
So  I  whirled  till  sucked  down.     Could  the 

human  help  fail, 

When  Divinity,  dogged  to  the  ultimate  height, 
Must  have  plunged  to  his  death?     He  was 

nowhere  in  sight. 

in 

I  awoke !  I  awoke !  I  awoke  from  the  slumber 
Of  mind,  and  about  me  were  mountains 

most  steep. 
Ah,  what  ranges    the  billions,  whose  bodies 

encumber 
This  planet  by  day  as  by  night  with  their 

sleep ! 
I  awoke,  and  ah,  where  was  the  whirl  without 

gleam? 
It  remained — where  it  only  could  be — in  my 

dream. 

IV 

On  arising,  my  impulse  was  first  to  awaken 
The  corpses  about  me,  that  mountained  the 
ground; 

33 


For  what  wings  for  the  world  has  our  trans 
port,  when  shaken 
To  life  by  mute  blasts  from  the  beauty 

around, 

And  we  list  to  the  lark,  as  ascends  he  afar 
On  the  breeze  from  dew-sparkle  to  twinkle  of 
Star! 

v 

As  I  gathered  my  thoughts  like  a  garment 

about  me, 
To  meet  with  becoming  respect,  One  august 

Who  had  halted  his  host  in  the  hills  just  with 
out  me, — 

A  herald  thus  hailed  me:    "Withhold  not 
thy  trust. 

What  but  'Welcome,'  engraven  in  gold,  is  the 
East? 

All  horizons  are  hands  that  direct  to  a  feast." 

VI 

On  a  mountain  rose  beauty,  an  edifice  cloying 

My  spirit  afar  with  its  festival  glare, 
And  aloud  spake  a  voice:    "All  is  thine  for 

enjoying." 

What  sculptures  and  paintings !  what  crown- 
gems!  and  where 

34 


A  refreshment  in  phantasy's  fruitfulest  land, 
Like  the  vintages,  served  by  the  Monarch's 
own  hand? 

VII 

In  a  chalice  of  Starlight,  He  pours  out  the 

strongest 

Of  cordials  celestial  for  me,  lest  when  I 
Turn  my  face  toward  drear  death,  of  all  deserts 

the  longest, 
I  faint  as  the  whirlings  of  dust  mount  on 

high. 
What  the  wine?     It  is  Harmony, — surely  a 

strength 
To  my  mind  for  that  desert,  whatever  its 

length. 

VIII 

Of  His  richest,  old  wines  that  refreshen  my 

vigor, 

Unselfishness  for  an  ideal  sublime, 
As  of  saints  who,  in  plague,  or  in  winter's 

worse  rigor, 

Relieve  the  afflicted,  is  surely  the  prime. 
No  libation,  not  even  from  yonder  blue  bowl, 
Effervescent  with  stars,  gives  such  strength  to 
the  Soul. 

35 


IX 

What  a  chalice  of  music,  with  lark  and  with 

linnet 
And    robins  engraven!    though    fleetingly 

frail 
Is  the  chalice  of  odor,  what  tropics  are  in 

it! 

What  poetry,  then,  in  a  luminous  grail! 
Though  I  drink  of  all  meads,  and,  in  truth, 

have  my  fill, 
He  persists  in  confirming  His  kindliest  will. 


If  a  hint   He  vouchsafe,   though  by  figure 

obscurely, 

That  over  the  Nebulae-resonant  roof, 
There  is  glory  for  me,  how  requite  Him  so 

poorly 
As  shut  my  soul's  eyes  in  His  face  and  beg 

proof? 
Nay,  extending  five  fingers,  demand  that  He 

must 

Put  all  Truth  in  their  closure,  or  forfeit  my 
trust! 

36 


XI 

From  the  feast  I  rise  trustful.     I  know  how 

abysmal 

And  mountainous,  too,  is  the  dark  to  tra 
verse 

From  matter  to  spirit ;  but,  surely,  the  dismal 
Has  bounds;  and  if  clouds  should  be  hard 
to  disperse, 

'T  is  because,  in  His  goodness,  God  wants  me, 
in  sooth, 

To  be  almost  His  peer  by  my  Faith  in  His 
Truth. 


37 


<§>ft,  flD$  Babe!  11  Jfancp  So 

Baby  sleeps.     How  sweet  her  smile! 

She  awakes,  and  still  it  lingers. 

Is  her  smile  the  lambent  fingers 
Of  the  angel,  who,  the  while, 

Strokes  her  cheek  and  loathes  to  go? 

Oft,  my  Babe!   I  fancy  so. 

Serious  now  is  baby's  face. 

Does  her  waking  soul  compare 

Us  in  shade  with  sprites  in  the  glare 
That,  from  Heaven,  through  rifts  of  Grace, 

Falls  aslant  on  earth  below? 

Oft,  my  Babe!   I  fancy  so. 


Star  of  tbe  Ewiligbt 


Come,  star  of  the  twilight!    't  is  time  for  thy 

coming. 

The  cow  for  her  loneliness  dolefully  lows, 
Astray  on  the  wayside;   no  bee  now  is  hum 

ming, 

Except  one  o'erladen  and  shut  in  the  rose  ; 
While  Eve,  like  a  sightless,  sad  maiden,  be 

guiling 

The  pain  of  her  spirit,  is  beading  the  dew, 
With  eyelids  cast  down,  yet  with  counten 

ance  smiling, 

Because  of  her  trust  that  her  star  will  be 
true. 

ii 

Thou  comest,  O  star,  in  response  to  my  yearn 

ing! 

Aye,  comest,  and  being  of  dawn  —  to  my 
ken  — 

39 


As  well  as  of  dusk,  I  behold  in  thy  burn 
ing, 

A  beckoning  onward  forever  to  men. 
How  Reverie,  moved  by  thy  influence,  rises! 

How  swiftly  its  current,  unaided  by  oar, 
Bears  off  from  the  wrecks  of  my  sanguine 

emprises, 

Reflection — my  craft,  made  of  hulks  washed 
ashore ! 


in 


Out,  over  the  wonderful  depths  of  forever 
Where    flaring,    rich    golden,    all   glorious 

days 
Are    lamp-fish    a-circling,  —  I    wander,    but 

never 
For  more  than  a  moment  lose  sight  of  thy 

blaze. 
Yet  lo !  thou  art  gone !  the  seas  search  for  thy 

splendor. 
Thou  turnest  from  earth  in  no  pallor  of 

night, 
But  goest  above  to  Jehovah,  to  tender 

Thy   homage    in   secret   to    Him    on    the 
Height. 

40 


IV 

To  gates  that  ope  gray  and,  behind  thee, 

shut  golden, 
I  follow.     How  stay  with  the  Titans  that 

loom 
Grotesque,    and   that   grating   out   jargons, 

embolden 
Each  other  to  utterance  more  harsh  in  the 

gloom, 
Until  one,  ascending  the  mountain  of  madness, 

Cries  out  to  the  races  all  over  the  earth: 
"Come,  perish  together;  rid  earth  of  her  sad 
ness!" 

As  life  were  but  travail  with  Horror  for 
birth! 


For  peace  so  inglorious,  surely  I  long  not, 

Whatever  my  anguish.     Whatever  reverse 
Defeats  my  endeavor,  the  Father  I  wrong  not 
By  deeming   His  prompting  incessant,  a 

curse. 

I  know  it  is  little  that  I  have  discerned ; 
How  count,   then,   the   Total?     Before   I 
became, 

41 


What  truths,  with  their  orbits  round  earth, 

may  have  burne"d? 

And,  when  I  depart,  what  new  thousands 
may  flame! 


VI 


When,  therefore,  I  ponder  on  Wisdom's  re 
vealing 
Through  nature  and  prophet,  and  fancy  a 

void, 

I  doubt  not  that  thither  a  planet  is  wheel 
ing 

More  fulgent  than  any  the  world  has  en 
joyed. 
How  question  that  orbs  of  a  Roentgen-Ray 

sparkle 

Illumine  all  voids  that  the  mind  can  con 
ceive  ? 
If  not,  that  truths  rise,  as  dost  thou,  till  they 

darkle 
In  glory  to  teach  us  to  soar — to  believe? 


VII 


Belief  is  the  flight  of  the  spirit ;  and,  surely, 
Wherever  the  Light  in  its  fulness  is  stayed, 
42 


The  spirit  can  soar  where  thou  poisest  se 
curely, 
And  see  that  the  darkness  is  Substance's 

shade ; 
Nay,  pendant  with  thee,  it  can  bask  on  the 

far  side, 

In  Morning  unbroken;  and  oh!  can  discern 
That  Substance,  though  often  a  night  without 

star-side, 
Is  Love,  that  for  atoms  has  vistas  eterne. 


43 


faitb 

Faith,  a  child  with  angel  sight, 

Leads  the  soul  through  Nature's  night. 

Winds  are  moths  about  her  light. 

What  the  taper  that  she  bears? 
Reason  that,  raised  Heavenward,  flares. 
Whence  the  flame?    Ask  stars  whence  theirs. 

Could  the  hand  that  lights  the  sun, 
Stars  and  planets,  every  one, 
Pass  the  soul  and  leave  it  dun? 


Mete  Ibuman  features 

a  Dream 


What  legions  !  could  an  eagle 

Pass  them  in  a  whole  year's  flight? 
They  thronged  the  mountains,  flashing 

Like  snow  from  every  height. 
Oh,  how  mine  eye  was  ravished, 

How  joy  streamed  forth  in  tears, 
For  theirs  were  human  features 

I  had  not  seen  for  years! 

On  roads,  and  on  steel  bridges 

O'er  rivers,  dark  and  fleet, 
They  marched  with  tread  that  sounded 
One  hammer's  regular  beat  ; 
Yet,  tho'  they  forged  the  mountains 

A  ladder  to  the  Spheres, 
What  cared  I  ?     I  saw  only 

Their  features  thro'  my  tears. 

45 


O'er  Winter,  chained  to  summits, 

Adown  the  glad  Spring  flew 
In  meteoric  greenness 

That  changed  to  every  hue ; 
Yet  oh!  what  was  that  splendor, 

Tho'  trebled  by  clouds  and  meres, 
Beside  those  human  features 

I  had  not  seen  for  years ! 

Like  lightning,  world-wide,  halting, 

How  scanned  I  every  face ! 
And,  wild  with  dread  of  losing 

The  eye-clasp  of  my  race, 
How,  like  a  dead  man,  wakened 

After  a  thousand  years, 
I  gloated,  gloated,  gloated, 

Till  joy  drained  all  my  tears! 

What  was  the  martial  music, 

That  drew  from  every  coast, 
Dark  forest,  swamp,  and  desert, 

That  mountain-scaling  host? 
The  vision  of  each  other, 

Which  stirred  them,  till,  with  cheers, 
They  took  at  Dawn,  the  places, 

Held  night-long  by  the  spheres. 
46 


Sons  of  tbe  Soul 

In  joyous,  skyey  flight 

I  skim  along, 
All  day  and  through  the  night, 

With  bursts  of  song. 

"All  through  the  night, "  said  I? 

There  is  no  night 
About  me,  for  I  fly 

From  light  to  light. 

My  shadow  may  be  seen 

In  seas  of  tears, 
But  I  soar  on  serene 

And  lead  the  spheres. 

On,  on  I  soar  to  learn 

That  Life,  in  sooth, 
Is  to  soar  on  and  yearn 

For  Boundless  Truth. 

What,  then,  is  Rest?     Is  Peace 

Pursuit  for  ever? 
'T  is  God  without  surcease, 

Though  wholly,  never. 


47 


Bell 


(Written  in  honor  of  Csesar  Rodney,  the  Delaware  delegate  to  the  Pro 
vincial  Congress  at  Philadelphia,  whose  vote  enabled  the  friends  of  Liberty 
to  pass  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  on  Thursday,  July  Fourth,  Seven 
teen  Hundred  and  Seventy-six.) 


Liberty  Bell  without  a  tongue, 
Over  the  Hall  of  Congress,  swung. 
True  was  its  metal,  and  wrought  well ; 
Yet,  as  it  swayed,  no  one  could  tell 
Whether  it  ever,  or  soon,  would  sound. 
"Find  Rodney, — quick!"  the  cry  went  round. 

Far  in  the  field,  drear  miles  away, 

Rodney  was -arming  for  the  fray." 

Learning  that  he,  and  he  alone, 

Could  give  that  bell  eternal  tone, 

How,  through  a  cloud  of  wood  and  weed, 

He  spurred  and  spurred  his  lightning  steed! 

Liberty  Bell  without  a  tongue, 
Over  the  Hall  of  Congress,  swung. 

48 


Rightward  and  left,  it  swung  for  hours. 
Whether  the  Dawn,  or  Midnight  Powers, 
That  wrestled  on  high,  would  win  the  bell 
For  silence,  or  sound,  no  one  could  tell. 

Out  of  the  cloud  of  wood  and  weed, 
Village  and  town,  dropt  Rodney's  steed. 
Into  the  Hall  the  rider  sprang, 
Touched  the  bell,  and,  God!  it  rang! 
Rang!   Rang  a  grand  sunrise  of  sound, 
Awaking  Man  the  whole  world  round ! 


49 


tmrlem 

(On  its  retreat  from  Long  Island,  the  American  Army  was  saved  from 
annihilation  by  the  gallantry  of  Colonel  Knowlton,  Major  Leitch,  and  the 
men  under  their  command,  who  checked  the  British  at  Harlem,  September 
16,  1776.  The  Columbia  University  occupies  the  historic  site.) 

I 

Look!     On  Harlem's  blood-drenched  sod, 
Freedom  kneels  and  pleads  with  God. 
Heart-split,  how  her  arms  invoke, 
Like  a  lightning-sundered  oak! 

ii 

Up  she  leaps  with  whitening  rage, 
For  her  child,  the  Future  Age, 
With  his  face  hid  in  her  skirt, 
Tugs  in  dread  of  mortal  hurt. 

in 

Circling  her,  the  dauntless  few 
Dash  and  slash  with  sabre  true. 
How  their  every  zigzag  blow 
Gleams  with  souls,  wrenched  from  the  foe ! 
50 


IV 


Knowlton  draws  his  hand,  dyed  red, 
From  his  breast,  and  waves  ahead; 
Leitch  cries,  falling:  "On  to  the  foes! 
Tend  to  me  at  the  battle's  close." 


Look!     Almighty  Justice'  form 
Stands  against  the  greatening  storm — 
Stands,  and,  sheltering  the  few, 
Shows  His  face  to  human  view. 


jfatber  of  our  IRaval  (Slorp 


(During  the  action  between  the  Alliance  and  the  British  ships  of  war,  the 
Atlanta  and  Trepassy  May  28,  1781,  Commodore  John  Barry  was  so  se 
verely  wounded  that  he  was  forced  to  leave  the  deck  for  treatment.  While 
his  gaping  wound  on  the  right  shoulder  was  being  dressed  by  the  surgeon, 
the  officer  in  charge  of  the  Alliance  came  below  to  his  commander  to  say 
that  they  were  overpowered  and  would  be  annihilated,  if  they  did  not 
strike  their  colors.  "  Strike  my  flag  ?  Never!"  shouted  Barry,  and  bound 
ing  up  the  companionway  to  the  deck,  he  so  inspired  his  men  that  after  a 
desperate  struggle  of  four  hours,  the  British  ships  surrendered.  Sir  William 
Howe  had  offered  Commodore  Barry  .£20,000  and  the  command  of  a  British 
squadron,  if  he  would  desert  the  cause  of  freedom.) 


"The  foe!"  a  voice  yelled  from  the  mast. 

The  Captain  raised  his  glass  and  spied 

Two  vessels.     ' '  Give  them  chase, ' '  he  cried. 
He  cleared  the  deck  for  action  fast, 
And  then  spake  thus:   "Howe  wanted  me 

To  take  his  squadron;  I  declined; 

But,  seeing  it,  I  change  my  mind. 
Lads,  help  me  take  it — from  the  sea!" 

' '  Hurrah !  hurrah ! ' '  husked  out  the  crew ; 

And  faster  the  Alliance  flew. 
52 


II 

' '  Fire,  lads ! "  he  cried.     What  mainyard  crash 
Echoed  his  cannon!     Oh!  how  blazed 
His  eyes,  like  battles,  when,  joy-crazed, 

He  balked  the  foe's  concerted  dash! 

They  tacked,  and,  smoking  still,  hove  nigh. 
Was  Fate  to  close  those  ships  like  shears, 
On  Freedom's  pennon  which,  'mid  cheers, 

This  sailor  had  been  first  to  fly? 

Urging  his  gunners  where  out-worn, 
He  fell,  and  from  the  deck  was  borne. 


in 

''Surgeon,"  he  hissed,  "quick  with  your  knot. 
How  lie  here  while  the  fight  goes  on? 
We  are  a-whaling,  and,  anon, 

Those  bulls,  harpooned  by  our  sure  shot, 

Will  be  hauled  in.     Oh!   't  is  a  catch 
That  will  supply  the  oil  to  light 
Freedom's  dark  camp  for  many  a  night!" 

How  his  wild  eyes  lit  up  the  hatch, 
When  a  subaltern  came,  wry -faced 
From  words  in  his  mouth,  not  to  his  taste. 

53 


IV 

The  man,  all  powder-smeared,  bent  low 
To  the  stretched  Captain,  as  he  spake : 
"We  're  overpowered,  and  save  we  take 

The  colors  down  at  once,  Sir '      "No! 

Aloft  they  stay!"  bold  Barry  roared. 
Up  leaped  he  from  the  surgeon's  grip. — 
How  hold  the  lightning  ? — that  dead  ship 

Took  life  from  him.     Both  sides,  it  poured 
Out,  crater-like,  until,  at  last, 
The  foes  drew  their  flag  from  the  mast. 


He  manned  those  ships ;  nor,  till  his  men 
Veered  them  toward  shore,  felt  he  his  wound ; 
And,  when,  below,  the  gash  was  bound, 

He  hastened  to  the  deck  again. 

Aloft,  clouds  brewed ;  but  these  were  hurled 
Asunder,  and,  twin -bursts,  they  swelled 
The  seas  peak-high ;  yet  he  beheld 

A  rarer  sight — a  rescued  world! 

And  knew  the  arch  in  Heaven  to  be 
His  valor  shining  through  the  sea. 

54 


VI 

How  honor  him  who  never  struck 

His  Colors,  but  fought  on,  though  gory, — 
The  Father  of  our  Naval  Glory? 

Hast  thou,  Old  Sea,  seen  grander  pluck? 

Hast  thou  in  thy  memorial  deep 
A  purer  pearl  than  Barry's  deed? 
Search  with  thy  million  hands  and  knead 

The  countless  ages  in  thy  keep. 
Lo !  how  his  soul  lives  in  his  sons 
Where  e'er  they  sail  with  Freedom's  guns! 


55 


Memorial  Grees  on  Wasbington  Ibeiabts 

(Thirteen  trees  were  planted  by  Alexander  Hamilton  at  the  Grange, 
Washington  Heights,  New  York  City,  in  commemoration  of  the  States 
that  took  part  in  the  Revolution.  The  trees  have  been  reduced  to  seven 
by  the  storms  of  a  hundred  years.) 

Not  idle  is  this  armless  band. 

They  murmur  not,  with  head  to  head, 
What  only  they  can  understand. 

Hush,  Traffic!    Here,  walk  soft  of  tread. 

Without  a  leafy  whisper,  where 

Once  camped  the  dauntless,  sorely -tried, 
They  look  aloft,  and  lo!  we  share 

Their  vision  of  the  glorified. 

Though  Brooklyn's  meadow,  Harlem's  Height 
And  all  surrounding  hills  were  erst 

Steep  stairs  in  Freedom's  headlong  flight, 
How  shines  on  high  the  scene  reversed! 

How,  in  the  air  of  bright  renown, 
Those  battles  all  are  soaring  stairs 

56 


To  Freedom's  feet,  till,  lo !  a  crown 

Of  stars  she  takes  from  Heaven  and  wears. 

With  mute  star-tread  about  the  throne 
Of  Freedom,  move  with  cheer  benign, 

The  bold  Thirteen — oh,  Glory's  own 

Who   worldward   beck   with   wands    that 
shine! 

In  storm,  or  calm,  no  idle  band — 
The  veteran  trees  on  yonder  croft. 

Before  them  many  an  age  shall  stand, 
And,  reverential,  look  aloft. 


57 


East  IRivcr  prison  Ibulfcs 

(During  the  Revolution  fifteen  thousand  American  patriots  perished  in 
the  British  prison-hulks,  anchored  in  the  East  River.) 

Haste  in  your  rush,  morn,  noon,  and  night, 
Across  these  bridges,  thoughtless  throng! 
How  haste,  when  from  this  stream  the  song 

Of  freeman's  scorn  of  brutal  might — 
The  paean  raised  to  freedom,  erst, 
If  touched  by  thought,  renews  its  burst! 

Below,  the  dark  pest  hulks  were  moored, 
Where  thousands  rotted  in  the  hold. 
Oh!  such  the  horrors  daily  doled 

To  Freedom's  noblest,  chain-secured, 

They  heard  with  more  delight  than  dread, 
Each  morn's  salute :  ' '  Turn  out  your  dead. ' ' 

Of  all  the  huddled  brave,  but  one 
Abjured  his  faith  to  gain  the  shore. 
Beast-like,  they  licked  the  hardened  gore 

58 


Within  the  hulk-hold  cold  and  dun, 
Rather  than  let  a  brooklet  clear 
Reflect  their  stoop  of  baseness  near. 

What!  do  ye  grudge  a  moment's  stand, 

When  Fancy  touches  Freedom's  slain? 

Hark!  hear  the  chords  of  their  disdain 
Of  all  thought  but  to  free  their  land. 

What  music — nay,  arch-trumpet  call! 

Echo,  ye  groves  of  steeples  tall! 

Wake,  O  ye  dead — ye  who  forget 
Due  reverence  to  deeds  sublime. 
'T  is  a  dead  country  in  quicklime 

That  to  the  past  pays  not  its  debt. 

Halt,  then,  a  moment,  thoughtless  throng, 
To  hear  this  river's  sacred  song. 


59 


(Brant 

(At  the  obsequies  of  General  Grant  at  Riverside  Park  the  warships  in  the 
Hudson  boomed  at  intervals  of  one  minute.) 

Boom,  O  ye  warships!    boom,  each  minute 

boom! 

Ye  voice  the  gratitude  we  fain  would  shout. 
Boom!  for  ye  rouse  not  from  the  distant  deep, 
The  monster  fratricidal  war,  to  rear 
Its  hideous  head  amid  the  Heavens,  and  make 
The  rising,  roving  and  insatiate  sun, 
Its  coldly  glittering  eye  to  search  the  land 
For  youth  and  manhood  at  the  school  and 

plough. 

Boom,  O  ye  warships!  for  ye  rouse  no  more 
The  creature  that,  with  coils  of  chaos,  wound 
About  our  country,  crushing  out  her  life 
In  streams  of  gore,  that,  like  the  Deluge,  left 
Not  one  green  herb;   the  creature  that,  for 

years, 

Disported  storm-like  in  the  crimson  flood 
With  such  wild  rage,  its  ceaseless  splashes 

drenched 

60 


The  four  horizons  to  the  furthest  home. 
Yea,  boom,  O  warships!  ye  make  audible 
The  heart-throbs  of  the  millions  on  the  shore ; 
For  they  forget  not  who,  at  last,  struck  down 
The  monstrous  Thing  and  cast  it  in  the  sea; 
And,  when  its  carcass  of  revenge  and  hate 
Rose  on  the  waters — Oh!  a  ghastliness 
That,  high  as  heaven,  would  have  shut  out  the 

sun, 

And  have  bred  pestilence  from  age  to  age — 
Who  loosed  it  from  the  swamps  and  fissured 

rocks 

With  gentle  word,  whereat  the  day  and  night 
Became  a  tempest  and  a  tidal  wave 
Against  the  horror,  so  that  now  it  drifts 
Among  the  icebergs  that  chill  not  the  child, 
Held  in  the  father's  arms  upon  the  shore. 


Sonnets 


tfoe  Door 


If,  by  the  door,  at  crimson  eve,  I  stand, 
'T  is  not  to  watch  the  clouds  or  sea-fowl  fly, 
But  listen,  dearest,  to  thy  lullaby 
Which  leads  our  darling,  like  a  loving  hand, 
Down  slumber's  dark  descent,  when,  zephyr- 

fann'd 
By  the  sweet  heaven  of  knowing  thou  art 

nigh, 
Her  blue  eyes  close,  and  lost  becomes  her 

cry 
In  her  red  lips'  glad  smile  in  wonderland. 

Thy  song  is  prophecy  of  days  afar; 
And  oh,  as  faint  and  fainter  falls  thy  note, 
Thy  love  appears  a  lark  in  heaven  remote, 

Companioning  from  Eve,  its  peerless  star, 
To  Hope's  red  morn,  that  bursts  all  clouds 
afloat. 

Ah!  how  but  linger  at  the  door,  ajar? 


Beatrice 

Oh,  while  my  baby  sleeps,  what  fancies  rise! 
A  sparkling  dew,  all  tremulous,  she  seems, 
On  Slumber's  crimson  -  opening  bud  of 

dreams. 
Cease,  Zepyhr!    hold  thy  breath;    nor  move 

thine  eyes. 

Lo!  angels  deem  her  sleep  auroral  skies, 
And  float  thereunder  from  the  crescent's 

beams. 
Oh,  God  be  praised  that,  while  with  woe 

earth  teems, 
It  is  on  Gideon's  fleece  my  infant  lies! 

O  Beatrice!  my  love  spreads  azure-wide 
Above    thy    slumber,    and,    star-lighted, 

reaches 

The  Father  whom  no  soul  in  vain  beseeches. 

It  craves  for  thee  the  joys  that  cross  the  tide, 

When  the  dark  seas  that  roar  along  Life's 

beaches 
With  threat  of  chaos,  hear  God  and  divide. 


66 


'£  10  now  Gbree  Becafces 

'T  is  now  three  decades  since  the  shores  of 

li^ht 
With  their  green  forests,  cities,  peaks  of 

blue, 
And  wandering  birds  were  blasted  from  my 

view, 
And  I  have  been  storm-tossed  from  blight  to 

blight. 

Despair,  the  awful  shape  that  looms  to  sight 
O'er  the  calm  waters  where,  if  one  pursue 
His  quest,  he  perishes  with  all  his  crew, 
Has  hourly  risen,  and  put  my  craft  to  flight. 

But  now  I  face  the  monster.     Let  him  loom 
Above  me,  with  his  lurid,  gloating  eyes, 
And  shake  the  ocean's  surge  and  clouded 

skies 
With   thunderous   threat  of  my  impending 

doom, 

If  triumph  is  the  port  of  my  emprise ; 
My  Will  harpoons  this  monster  of  the  gloom. 


a  Cbitt)  IReaMng 

My  darling!   spell  the  words  out.     You  may 

creep 

Across  the  syllables  on  hands  and  knees, 
And  stumble  often,  yet  pass  me  with  ease 
And  reach  the  spring  upon  the  summit  steep. 
Oh,  I  could  lay  me  down,  dear  child!    and 

weep 
These  charr'd  orbs  out,  but  that  you  then 

might  cease 

Your  upward  effort,  and,  with  inquiries, 
Stoop  down  and  probe  my  heart  too  deep, 
too  deep! 

I  thirst  for  knowledge.     Oh,  for  an  endless 

drink! 
Your  goblet  leaks  the  whole  way  from  the 

spring — 

No  matter ;  to  its  rim  a  few  drops  cling, 
And  these  refresh  me  with  the  joy  to  think 
That  you,  my  darling!  have  the  morning's 

wing 
To  cross  the  mountain,  at  whose  base  I  sink. 


68 


a  1bun&ret>  (Bates  of  Brass 

Around  me  are  a  hundred  gates  of  brass, 
At  each  of  which  I  knock  with  heart  and 

brain. 

Feeling  each  gate,  I  make  out  but  too  plain 
The  sentence:    "By  this  way  thou  canst  not 

pass." 

With  naked  feet  I  walk  on  molten  glass 
From  gate  to  gate,  and  shake  each  bar  in 

vain. 

Ah !  hearing  but  too  well  the  martial  strain 
Within  the  walls,  how  help  but  sigh  "alas!" 

I  kneel,  and  with  my  finger  which  I  char, 
I  rudely  sketch  a  meditative  soul 
On  the  white  loam,  with  Nature's  Runic 

scroll 

In  both  his  hands,  and,  over  him,  a  star 
That  sheds  light  on  each  page.     No  drum's 

wild  roll 
Distracts  me,  then ;  the  host  has  marched  afar. 


Mall  Street 

I  look  up,  but  find  little  to  extol 

In  these  tall  structures.     They  appear  to 

me 

Great  mausoleums;  for,  in  them,  I  see 
Men  with  shut  eyes  and  without  heart  or  soul. 
Though  on  each  door  is  writ  in  golden  scroll, 
"The  way  to  Freedom,"  Greed,  who  holds 

the  key, 
Smiles  grimly;  for,  the  Ghoul!  no  thought 

has  he 
To  let  a  mortal  out  from  his  control. 

Vainly  the  sun  cries  out :   ' '  Help  me  to  right 
The  human  ship,  awry  in  Summer's  tide ; 
Help,  help  me  on  the  heart  and  spirit  side ! " 
Ah!  when  the  men  with  more  than  morning's 

might 
To  right  that  ship,  help  not,  how  gaze  with 

pride 
On  their  entombment  to  a  giddy  height? 


The  azure  is  a  magnifying  lens 

To  angels  o'er  it,  poised  in  ecstacy. 

A  good  grows  grander  up  to  where  they  be, 

And  only  good  can  ever  reach  their  kens. 

A  good  deed,  hid  from  us  by  reedy  fens, 
Or  river  mist,  lights  leagues  of  lake  and  lea 
To  their  rapt  glance;   and,  oft,  't  is  bloom 
where  we 

See  only  crimson  trails  to  lions'  dens. 

A  magnifying  lens,  't  is  truly;  still, 
It  bulkens  not  our  selfish  meannesses 
Beyond  the  worm's  small  maw,  which  is 

their  size. 
No  pageantry  to  Chaos,  though  it  fill 

The  whole  world,  but  the  Movement  unto 

Peace, 

Reaches  yon  watchers  through  the  lensing 
skies. 


(Brace 

Who  that  knows  Life — the  weakness  of  our 

Will 

And  fury  of  temptation — will  exalt 
Himself  above  his  brother,  sunk  in  fault? 
Loose  is  the  soil  we  grasp,  and  steep  the  hill. 
Oft,   when  most  confident  of  strength  and 

skill, 

We  fall  and  reach  the  frog-pool,  ere  we  halt. 
Hark!   hear  the  stir  of  thousands,  wild  to 

vault ! 
No  soul,  wherever  sunk,  can  rest  stone-still. 

Oh!  how  temptations  flash  whenever  we 
Attain  a  foothold  on  a  lofty  rock, 
Stand  and  look  round !     They  blind  us  with 

their  shock. 

O  Grace,  whose  glint  of  wing  I  faintly  see 
Through  fog  of  bat-like  fiends  that  round 

me  mock, 

Break  through,  break  through,  and  take  me 
up  with  thee ! 


Spirit's  Cbant 

With  aspirations  up  the  Spirit  wings, 

Beating  abysmal  darkness  toward  the  Light. 

Above,    poise    Angel   hosts   to   watch   its 

flight 
From  out  the  whirl  where  downward  plunge 

all  things. 
Born  for  cerulean  soaring,  up  it  sings, 

Its  carol  guiding  dim-eyed  Dawn  aright. 

Up,  up  it  soars ;  for  ah !  its  pinion  might 
Increases  with  its  struggles  and  its  stings. 

Hark  to  its  joyous  chant:   "Let  torrents  fall; 
They    cannot    drown   me,    nor   whirl   me 

adrift ; 
I  scud  up  through  the   lightning's  zigzag 

rift 
And  laugh  down  at  the  clouds  that  would 

appal ; 
Yea,  for  God  gives  me  pinions,  strong  and 

swift, 

To  beat  down  storms  and  heed  His  skyward 
call." 


73 


OTben  Hove  It  Was 

All  nature  does  my  soul  assimilate, 

For  what  but  manna  all  the  things  that  are  ? 
The  earth,  the  sun,  the  moon,  and  every 

star 
Melt  in  my  mind,  and  form  such  nourishing 

cate, 

I  grow  a  god.     Ah,  then,  I  contemplate 
My  whitherward!    for  clouds  rise,  bar  on 

bar, 
Perturbed  with  dawn  waves  by  the  planet 

jar 
Of  Infinite  Power  which  I,  perplexed,  await. 

Beneath  me,  Nature's  myriad  peaks  of  snow 
Melt  and  become  the  freshet  of  an  hour. 
I  tremble  at  the  roar;  but  do  not  cower! 
Oh!  what  have  I  to  fear,  when  well  I  know, 
That  Love  it  was,  who  breathed  me  out  of 

nought, 

And  made  me  god-like  with  transcendent 
thought? 


74 


l?et  j£t>er  "Rising 

My  soul  seems  drowning  fast;  yet,  if  to-day, 
I  sink  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 
Where    only    grim,    misshapen    creatures 
creep, 

And,  in  its  awful  roar,  I  swoon  away, 

I  rise  to-morrow  to  the  Nebulae, 

Whence  dazzling  constellations  start  and 

sweep, 
Proclaiming  by  the  orbits  that  they  keep, 

A  Master  whom  't  is  glory  to  obey. 

I  catch  a  trailing  star,  and,  circling  space, 
Behold  below  a  Countenance  Benign 
Reflected  in  the  billows ;  then,  divine 

Down  in  the  darkest  depths,  the  human  race 
Contending  with  the  monsters  of  the  brine, 

Yet  ever  rising  slowly,  stirr'd  by  Grace. 


75 


Ifceal 

All  men  were  gathered  by  the  broad,  blue 

stream, 
When,  from  the  shore,  an  angel  flung  a 

shell. 

Along  the  surface,  how  it  rose  and  fell, 
Sun -like!     It  was   the   Truth.     Its   glorious 

gleam 
Some    saw    and    followed,    and,    though,    it 

would  seem, 
They    sank    beneath    the    storm's    terrific 

swell, 
The  Angel  smiled  and  said:    "Lo!    they 

swim  well, 

Who,  though  submerged,  still  struggle  toward 
the  beam." 

Buoyant  with  joy,  the  Angel  followed  them 
Across  ten  thousand  night-falls  of  the  brine. 
His  crimson  shadow  made  those  waters  wine. 
O  happy  they  whom  tide,  nor  storm,  could 

stem! 
For,  when,  at  last,  they  reached  the  shore 

divine, 
Each  found  the  shell  and  got  its  priceless  gem. 

76 


tto  a  Cbilfc  in  Ibeaven 

It  is  not  thou  who  art  within  the  tomb 

This  morning,  but  my  spirit,  darling  child! 

Thou  art  arisen;  but  I,  not  reconciled 
To  thy  departure,  feel  the  damp  and  gloom 
Of  deep  inclosure  from  the  summer's  bloom, 

And  the  warm  sun,  now  bright,  as  when  he 
smiled, 

Beholding  thee,  a  spirit  undefiled, 
Pass  him  in  Heaven  from  evil  and  its  doom. 

I  rise,  for,  from  the  grave,  Faith  rolls  the 

stone ; 
And,  as  Time's  shining  arch,  of  which  the 

years 

Are  swiftly-changing  rain-drops,  disappears, 
And  darkness  skulks  away  to  die  alone, 
My  grateful  thoughts  gush  forth  to  God, 

like  tears, 
That  evil,  Aubrey!  thou  hast  never  known. 


77 


Go  m\>  Sieter 

O  Sister!   truly  is  thy  other  name 

Self -Sacrifice.     What  years  thy  tireless  eyes 
Have  borne  me  upward !  for,  if  through  the 

skies 
My  soul  has  soared  above  the  smoke  and 

flame 
From  earth,  reduced  to  ash  and  dust,  whence 

came, 
But  from  thy  sight,  my  glimpse  of  how  to 

rise? 

Whence,  too,  the  vigor  for  my  long  em 
prise? 
Ah!  from  thy  faith  in  me  and  in  my  aim. 

To  whirl  in  black  eruption — what  a  doom! 
Ah!    if  not  for  thine  eyes  that  gave  me 

sight 
Of  azure,  and  thy  faith  that  urged  my 

flight, 

How  could  I  have  escaped  the  crater's  fume? 
I  should  have  fallen   headlong,   senseless 

quite, 

And  stirr'd  to  flame  the  ashen  depths  of 
gloom. 

78 


Hf 

Ah!   if  this  life  were  bounded  by  the  tomb — 
If  Love,  Hope,  Faith  and  noble  deed  were 

all 
Dashed  back  in  fragments  by  the  granite 

wall — 
If  passionate  longings  were  but  forms  that 

loom 
Above  the  field  of  battle  lost — if  doom 

Gathered  all  clouds  for  one  dire  thunder- 
fall, 
That  would  bring  down  the  heavens  and 

leave  no  small, 
Blue  space  on  high  for  one  star-seed  to  bloom — 

Then,    I   should   madden   at   Pelee's   blown 

blaze 

Turning  town  after  town  in  ashen  heap, 
And  cry  out :  ' '  God,  thou  nightmare  of  my 

sleep!" 
But,  in  the  densest  darkness,  strange  light 

plays 
On  Life's  tall  mast.     Whence  comes  that 

flame  aleap, 

But  from  shore  lights  Beyond?    There  we 
shall  praise. 

79 


1$  Xife  HII  Bownvoarfc  IRoot? 

Ah!    there  are  times  I  miss  the  morning's 

trail. 

Hill  after  hill  I  climb,  but  glean  no  glint. 
No  steps  I  see,  but  those  of  nightfall's  print, 
And  these  I  follow  deep,  though  oft  I  quail. 
Where  wander  I,  forsooth?     Oh,  where  the 

pale, 
Brief   star-sparks,    struck   by   night   from 

azure's  flint, 

Burn  out,  ere  they  illumine  with  a  hint 
That  life  is  aught  but  gnarled  and  fruitless 
bale! 

Is  life  all  downward  root?     I  soar  blue  space 
To  find  aloft  a  glimpse  of  bud,  or  bloom, 
Or  waft  of  fragrance ;  all  is  stifling  gloom. 

About  to  fall  headlong,  I  gasp,  when  grace, 
A  breeze  born  by  the  bursting  of  Christ's 
tomb, 

Revives  me,  and  I  lift  a  trustful  face. 


to 


fl&ental  ©rbite 

What  if  bold  thinkers,   like  great  planets, 

swing 

Beyond  my  vision  and  in  mirk  decline? 
Their  orbits  may  be  more  immense  than 

mine. 

Our  mental  orbits — oh,  how  varying! 
Some  are  no  broader  than  a  pasture  ring ; 
While  others  girdle  Heaven — nay,  seven 
fold,  shine 

A  halo  round  the  head  of  God  benign; 
Or  trail  dark  nether  space  with  bloom,  like 
Spring. 

If,  from  the  mass  of  mist,  a  star  doth  swerve 
And  draw  a  cluster  to  the  East,  or  West, 
Or  sweep  beyond,  it  heeds  Divine  behest. 
What!   if  an  orb  describe  a  larger  curve 
Than  mine  can  take,  know  I  all  regions 

blest 

That  I  should  say:    "No  good  yon  star  can 
serve?" 


8r 


a  Sunset  Scene 

Oft,  on  the  wall  at  Riverside,  I  lean 

And  watch  the  clouds  pass   round  their 

monarch  dead, 
To   take  last  leave,   and  some  memorial 

shred. 

At  times  they  burn  with  such  prismatic  sheen 
And  shapes  so  multifarious  that,  I  ween, 
The  chaos,  hurled  ablaze  on  high,  is  fed 
By  Time's  proud  Empires,  thunderous  once 

of  tread, 
And  all  forms  monstrous,  that  have  ever  been. 

Oh !  could  my  soul  behold  the  ruthless  wrong 
Of  man  toward  man,  that,  clouding  earth 

and  sky, 

Makes  blazing  Love  a  ray  less  orb  on  high,— 
Lift,  and,  transmuted  golden,  sweep  along 
To  meet  the  clouds,  on  which  the  Lord 

draws  nigh 
With  Truth  triumphant,  'mid  seraphic  song! 


Gbe  palisabes 

Bold  herd  with  horns  flung  back  and  startled 

gaze, 

How  ye  inspire  my  fancy!     Were  ye,  erst, 
So  thunder-stricken  by  the  Hudson's  burst 
Among  you,  ye  are  still  filled  with  amaze? 
What!  does  its  meteoric  beauty  daze 
Your  sight  so,  ye  know  hunger  not,  nor 

thirst? 

Nor  long  to  herd  unsundered,  as  at  first, 
And  hence,  stir  not,  nor  stoop  to  drink,  or 
graze? 

Wild  herd,  ye  are  too  sacred  for  the  mart! 
Above  you,  Beauty,  cap-a-pie  agleam, 
Stands   guard   forever.     How   with   scorn 

supreme 

She  smites  vile  Trade  that,  with  blind  Earth 
quake's  art, 
Would  drive  you  from  Manhatta's  sight  and 

dream, 
And  leave  not  of  your  herd,  a  single  hart! 


Dame  fIDurrap  of  Bloomlngbale 

The  foe  was  galloping  in  hot  pursuit 

Of  Washington,  when  from  an  arbor  came, 
With  roses  in  her  hand,  a  gentle  dame, 
Who  stood  before  the  vanguard.     Her  salute 
Drew  the  gay  captain  from  his  rearing  brute 
Down  to  her  side.     He  said :  "In  the  good 

king's  name," — 
His  voice  low,  laden  more  with  love  than 

blame,— 

"Why  this  rash  deed?"     She  looked  up  and 
stood  mute. 

He  caught  her  arm  and  hiss'd :  ' '  Duty  to-day. ' ' 
She  pinn'd  a  rose  on  him,  the  whole  while 

chidden; 
Then  said,  heart-choked:   "Good  Sir!   I  do 

this,  bidden 

By  duty — to  my  land."     He  dashed  away, 
But   not   before   her   countrymen,   grove- 
hidden, 

Had  gained  the  hill  and  formed  fresh  for  the 
fray. 


J6rtn 

At  early  dawn,  while  yet  the  earth  lay  dark 
In  slumber,  with  no  fair  or  noble  dream, 
The  Angel,  Inspiration,  all  agleam, 

Lowered  with  a  grail  containing  Learning's 
spark. 

On  thy  green  shore,  she  found  such  resinous 

bark, 

She  made  thy  hill  an  altar,  and  its  beam 
Lighted  not  only  thine  own  lake  and  stream, 

But  dazzled  all  the  world  from  stupor  stark. 

There  burst  a  blast,  at  length,  that  whirled 

the  fire 
In  black  and  crimson  columns  through  the 

air. 
Where  fell  the  blaze,  up  sprang  a  sunrise 

glare. 
Yet,  tho'  for  ages  blew  the  blast  most  dire, 

It  never,  Erin!  swept  thy  altar  bare 
Of  flames  to  Heaven;  nor  made  them  Free 
dom's  pyre. 


Gbe  3ews  in 

From  town  and  village  to  a  wood,  stript  bare, 
As    they   of   their   possessions,    see    them 

throng. 

Above  them  grows  a  cloud ;  it  moves  along, 
As  flee  they  from  the  circling  wolf  pack's 

glare. 

Is  it  their  Brocken-Shadow  of  despair, 
The  looming  of  their  life  of  cruel  wrong 
For   countless   ages?     No;    their   faith   is 

strong 
In  their  Jehovah ;  that  huge  cloud  is  prayer. 

A  flash  of  light,  and  black  the  despot  lies. 
What    thunder    round    the    world!      'T  is 

transport's  strain 
Proclaiming  loud:   "No  righteous  prayer  is 

vain. 
No  God-imploring  tears  are  lost ;  they  rise 

Into  a  cloud,  and,  in  the  sky  remain, 
Till    they   draw    lightning    from   Jehovah's 
eyes." 


86 


ttbe  Hrcb  of  Oligbt 

Across  the  ocean  shines  an  arch  of  Light, 
An  Isthmus  from  the  Old  World  to  the  New. 
It  is  a  stretch  of  peaks,  hung  high  and  true, 
That  raise  man  to  a  rapt,  supernal  height. 
Beneath  this  arch,  Wealth,  War,  all  worldly 

might, 
Drift  with  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  starry 

blue 
And  all  huge  hates,  the  clouds  of  blackest 

hue, 

That  growl  and  glare  back  lightning  in  their 
flight. 

The  Arch  swings  forward.     What  if  lands  and 
seas 

Change   places?     It   will   reach   the   sea's 
new  lift 

Of   summits,    and  will   draw  the  human 

throng 
To  rapt  encampments  in  the  azure's  peace 

From  all  things  less  than  soul,  that  down 
ward  drift; 

For  it  is  Music  and  the  poet's  Song. 


87 


Beauty  is  Life.     It  is  the  growth  agleam 

That  sets  the  floweret  and  the  warbler's 
wing 

Upon  the  march  of  glad,  ascending  Spring ; 
The  growth  that,  while  it  makes  the  features 

beam, 
Of  man  and  woman,  and  of  deed  and  dream, 

Stirs  them  to  move  with  every  vernal  thing ; 

For  ah!   the  life  of  my  rapt  visioning 
Is  one  with  all,  approaching  Love  Supreme. 

The  art  that  shrinks  aloof  from  bird  and 

flower 

In  inspiration  Godward,  perisheth; 
'T  is  mock  Creation  in  the  mould  of  Death. 
What,   then,   is  Beauty?     'T  is  the  upward 

power, 
Aglow  in  man  and  star,  blown  by  God's 

breath, — 
Creation  at  its  culminating  hour. 


88 


Discovery 

Illumed  with  feast  and  moated  far  from  fret, 
For  ages  stood  the  monarch's  citadel. 
Ah!  hardy  was  the  host  in  fen  and  fell, 

That,  tho'  by  famine  and  by  plague  beset, 

Lived  on  with  no  mistrust,  until  they  met 
One  night,  in  answer  to  the  tocsin  bell, 
And,  plunging  thro'  the  marshes,  fought  so 
well, 

The  castle  was  relieved  from  hostile  threat. 

What,   then?  returning  home  with  fife  and 

drum, 
The  host  marched  round  and  round,  and 

each,  elate, 

Entered  the  castle,  whence,  precipitate, 
All  fled  in  horror  and  with  pale  lips  dumb! 
The  King  had  long  been  dust;  his  chair  of 

state 
Had,  ages  gone,  a  catafalque  become. 


Sun's 

The  sun's  way  is  the  soul's  way  unto  Thee, 
O  Father!    thou  hast  not  made  for  Thine 

own, 

A  dark  and  narrow  passage  to  Thy  Throne, 
But  the  broad  highway.     No  dark  pass  have 

we 

To  scale  up,  jut  by  jut,  where  we  can  see 
Our  way  but  by  Fear's  flashes,  and  the 

stone 

Above  us,  bears,  when  mounted,  one  alone, 
Or,  most,  a  remnant  of  humanity. 

The  sun's  way  is  thro'  love  made  manifest, 
Called  Beauty.     There  he  climbs  no  eremite 
For  rapt  aloofness,  but  to  lift  mankind ; 

And,   bending   with  wide   arms   of   season's 

blest, 
He  bears  the  host,  simple  of  heart,  to  sight 

Of  Thee,  no  less  than  those  of  subtle  mind. 


Soul 

When  you  see  darkness  roam  the  world  around, 
Devouring  every  living  thing  below 
And  over  him,  the  constellations'  glow 

As  well  as  tree  and  plant  that  tribe  the  ground, 

You  gasp  for  breath,  though  sheltered  from 

his  bound ; 
How  much  more  I,  who  feel  his  talon's 

blow! 
Look!  in  his  jaws  he  drags  me  to  and  fro, 

Or,  pausing,  laps  my  life  from  many  a  wound. 

Yet,  there  is  that  in  me  that  baffles  him— 
That  heals  my  every  gash — nay,  raises  me 
Beyond  his  teeth  and  talons'  crunch  and 

tear. 

'T  is  Soul  that,  heightening  to  seraphim 
With  thought  of  God,  leaves,  in  its  ecstacy, 
The  dark  below  to  growl  and  sniff  the  air. 


Cbime,  Dark  Bell! 

My  life  is  in  deep  darkness;  still,  I  cry 
With  joy  to  my  Creator:  " It  is  well! " 
Were  worlds  my  words,  what  firmaments 
would  tell 

My  transport  at  the  consciousness  that  I, 

Who  was  not,  Am!     To  Be — oh,  that  is  why 
The  awful  convex  dark  in  which  I  dwell, 
Is  tongued  with  joy,  and  chimes  a  temple 
bell 

Antiphonally  to  the  choirs  on  high! 

Chime  cheerily,  dark  bell!  for,  were  no  more 
Than  consciousness  my  gift,  this  were  to 

know 
The  Giver  Good, — which  sums  up  all  the  lore 

Eternity  can  possibly  bestow. 
Chime!   for  thy  metal  is  the  molten  ore 
Of  the  great  stars,  and  marks  no  wreck 
below. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


FormL9 — 15»t-10,'48(B1039)444 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  ftf  CALIFORNIA 


P3 


3507   ?he  haunted 


F3 

3507 

D766h 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000920316     7 


